We awoke to the rain, or rather the rain woke us,
five am, sleepily I pushed the curtains aside:
raindrops the size of bullets hit the road, the pavement,
my path, with a constant rat a tat tat, each snub nose
dove into the hard surface and bounced back, a little,
like milk in that famous photograph, like a crown.
It was July, and in July the sun is hot, but hidden
behind a heavy bank of dank, grey cloud, no it was not,
not shining, not hot, not a lot; a month’s rain fell that day,
heavy man-hole covers were pushed up in the road,
as torrents swirled and leapt, curled, twisted and we wept
as summer was washed away into drains, gullies, culverts.
Late in the day the weather relented, laughed at us
poor fools, clouds broke and were swept away,
that churlish sun, hidden for so long, cast its yellow light
like shadows, wet wood glistened like gold, shrivelled flowers
shook themselves and glanced round before reaching
for the warmth, little stars clasped in their petals.